The Liar Bird

By Lisa Walker

A classic fish-out-of-water romantic comedy -- can a city-slicker fall for a wildlife ranger?
Can a city bird change her feathers? PR whizz Cassandra Daley isn't afraid of using all the dirty tricks of the trade to spin a story her way. A glitzy city-slicker, she has never given much thought to wildlife until she loses a PR war with a potoroo. Sacked and disgraced, she flees the city for an anonymous bolt hole. But small-town Beechville has other plans for her. Feral pigs, a snake in the dunny, a philosopher frog and a town with a secret - could things get worse? Add one man who has the sexiest way with maps she's ever seen and Cassandra's really in trouble. Her best friend Jessica thinks she's been brainwashed by some kind of rural cult, and Jessica could be right. Can Cassandra reinvent herself or will she always be a liar bird?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Dec 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9780730496786

Lisa Walker

Lisa Walker lives on the far north coast of NSW where she is completing a PhD in creative writing. Lisa has had a radio play produced for ABC RN and was the winner of the Byron Writers Festival short story award. She was a finalist in the ABC Short Story Award and won second placed in the Henry Savery and Port Stephens Literature Awards. Lisa is the author of Liar Bird (HarperCollins, 2012) and Sex, Lies and Bonsai (HarperCollins, 2013) and her debut YA novel is called Paris Syndrome (HarperCollins 2018).  

Book preview

Part One

after such a fall as this,

I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs

Alice, from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,

Lewis Carroll

Chapter One

Down the plughole

If it wasn’t for the long-footed potoroo, I might never have heard of Beechville. But I suppose I can’t entirely lay the blame at the potoroo’s door — Warren Corbett must also take his share.

There have been many influential figures in my life, people who have opened doors at the right time, given words of advice, turned me onto a path I might not have taken. Of all of these, Warren Corbett looms largest.

Wazza, as he’s widely known in PR circles, was my first boss. More than that, he was my mentor. Do what it takes, girl, but don’t let them catch you, was his favourite saying. Second was, When in doubt, deny, deny, deny.

He’s old school, Wazza. PR Ethics hadn’t been invented when he made his first million. It was my luck — some would say karma — that I ended up at Winning Edge Public Relations still wet from my Communications degree. That was when the learning really started.

Wazza taught me everything I knew — how to set up ‘grassroots’ front groups that look and act just like the real thing; how to infiltrate real groups if need be and, most importantly, how not to let your conscience stand in the way of your career. He said it was important to look ethical; actually being ethical was optional and probably unwise.

He was the learned master and I the eager student. I sucked up his wisdom as thirstily as any magician’s apprentice. Good old Wazza, he’s still there, doing his thing. God knows there’s no shortage of clients ready to fork out for his golden touch.

Out of all the graduates who’d applied to his company — fifty or so — he picked me. Why?

‘I trust my instincts, Cassandra.’ He’d leant over his massive glass table, a whiff of cinnamon aftershave drifting towards me from his shiny cheeks. ‘In this game, you have to. And you … I can sense something. You’re smart, but they’re all smart. You look good, but they all look good. You’ve got something different, though.’ He’d placed his hand-rolled cigar in an ashtray and pointed his immaculately groomed, gold-ringed finger at my chest. ‘You are hungry.’

He was right.

He told me later — only half joking — that he’d been worried I’d leap over the desk and sink my teeth into his jugular if he’d knocked me back. I’d laughed politely, showing just a hint of fang to keep him on his toes.

We had five great years together, Wazza and I. Years that bought me my Manly harbour-front apartment, my Ferrari and my five-star investment portfolio. We were the PR ‘A’ team and all Sydney knew it. There wasn’t a company director or charity queen who didn’t have our card pinned to their board. I never stopped to question where we were going. Why would you when the phone never stopped ringing, the invitations to parties kept coming, and the bank account was bursting at the seams? I was on a fast ride to glory, leaping up the ranks of society like a cheetah on speed.

My life was mapped out in front of me — partnership in a year or two, my own business one day, a PR realm stretching its tentacles through Sydney, Australia, the world. Why not? After where I’d come from, I deserved it.

But it was thanks to Wazza that on Monday the 23rd of September at six am the phone woke me. Sliding my hand out from under the doona, I grasped the receiver and pressed it to my ear.

‘Simon McKechnie here.’

Simon was a rabid anti-progress leftist greenie and columnist for the Herald. McKechnie at six am was never good news.

‘From the Herald,’ he added, when I didn’t reply.

Like I didn’t know.

‘The People’s Council for Better Community Services. What can you tell me about it?’

Luckily my wits didn’t desert me. I made a chchch static noise, placed the phone down gently, unplugged it, checked my mobile was turned off, drew the curtains and, striding into the lounge room, poured myself a neat whiskey. It hit my belly like a bolt from God.

Anthony, of course, was useless.

‘What’s up, Cassandra?’ he called from the bedroom. ‘Are you making coffee? Make mine a skinny.’ He was using his pathetic little sleepy-boy voice.

I could expect no help there.

I knew I had about ten minutes, maybe twenty — plenty of time. My feet sank into the hand-woven Turkish carpet as I padded to the meditation room. Pulling out my tattered copy of The Annotated Alice, I opened it randomly, closed my eyes and pressed my finger to the page. ‘You don’t know much,’ said the Duchess, ‘and that’s a fact.’

I nodded — so true. Spot on, in fact.

Why Alice in Wonderland? I know it’s not what most thirty-year-old PR executives read. Well, we all have our means of coping. Some people are into Oprah; others, Buddha; and some — well, me — rely on Alice.

I first discovered the wisdom of Alice at the age of eight …

It was the day of the school fete — a much anticipated event that hadn’t gone to plan. My ‘best friend’ Jessica and I had had a falling out, but that’s another story. Suffice to say, I was deflated, dejected, down and out.

Alone at the book stall I shuffled through the Enid Blytons and out-of-date Women’s Weeklys laid out on the trestle tables but my eyes were drawn to a battered copy of The Annotated Alice. Stuffing the last morsel of Chiko Roll in my mouth, I picked up the book in my chubby freckled hands.

I liked books. Ours was a TV, not a book, house. At night we all lined up on the sofa in front of the box. If I tried to leaf through a book at the same time, Mum would frown at me.

‘Put that away, Cassie. You’re distracting me.’

As a result, books had an almost illicit appeal.

The flushed and sweaty woman behind the stall eyed my greasy hands as I opened the book at random. I saw a picture of a fierce, regal-looking woman frowning at a girl with long, blonde hair and the following words: Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been …

My thumb smeared a trail of oil across the page. I read the words over and over. They made no sense at all, whichever way I looked at them. I liked that. I liked the way it made me feel. As if I was poised on the edge of a well of wisdom. Oh yes, there was meaning there, I just needed to find it, dive in, explore … Handing over my last twenty cents, I took my treasure home.

It has stayed with me, that book, a 1972 edition containing both Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass. Its pages were yellowed and stained when I first bought it, but they’re more so now. The soft texture of the paper speaks of many hands fondling it before me. A faded inscription in the front reads, To darling Tessie, from Mum. I think of Tessie as my blood-sister. I’d like to meet her one day. Discuss Alice; share what it means to me. You don’t get that kind of connection with an e-book.

So … forget the I-Ching and the Tarot — I find Alice in Wonderland much more likely to provide wise advice at the right moment. It may need interpretation, but doesn’t all the best advice?

‘You don’t know much,’ said the Duchess. See what I mean? Perfect. What did Simon McKechnie know after all? Not much, and that’s a fact.

I glanced at the clock as I closed Alice. I still had a few minutes.

Folding my legs into lotus pose, I rested my hands, palm up, on my knees and meditated, using the mantra Wazza had taught me: deny, deny, deny. It was a well-practised routine. By the time the knock on the door came, I was ready.

‘Just a minute,’ I called. Rinsing my mouth to remove the smell of whiskey, I wrapped myself in a blue velvet robe. Lips pursed, I applied my pale pink Innocence lipstick and inspected myself in the mirror. The baby-faced looks I’d relied on to get me this far hadn’t let me down.

Running my fingers through my spiked and highlighted hair for a just-out-of-bed tousled look, I centred myself as I walked to the door.

Deny, deny, deny.

As I expected, McKechnie was there, sandy hair poking out at all angles, a holier-than-thou expression on his pale face. Puhleese. We all had to make a living. That he got to make his playing an environmental saint was his good luck, I suppose.

‘Why, Simon, what brings you to Manly at this time of day?’ I widened my eyes in mock surprise.

His pale green eyes narrowed, ready for his specialty: the inquisition. He would have been in great demand in sixteenth-century Spain, would Simon. Bring on the thumbscrews …

We’re old sparring partners, McKechnie and I. We were in the same year at university until our paths diverged. His to the gods, mine to the devil, some would say. But where would journos be without PRs? We do their job for them most of the time.

Oh, I’d thought about journalism, but PR attracted me more. What’s wrong with PR anyway? It’s illusion, smoke and mirrors, storytelling … Everyone loves a story, don’t they? I suppose journalism is about stories too, but it’s like the difference between non-fiction and fiction. And we all know fiction’s much more fun.

‘Phone lines down?’ Simon’s voice was flat.

‘Possum must have chewed them again.’ I eyeballed him, daring him to call me a liar. It was funny to think he’d asked me out in first year uni. I’d kind of liked him then. He was sharp, and witty, in a slightly try-hard way. I didn’t mind that. Most men tried hard around me.

But girls like me didn’t go out with guys like Simon. I was totally out of his league. Let’s face it, he might have been posh Woollahra to my rough-as-guts Blacktown, but my personal real estate was way more exclusive.

Anthony was out of bed by now; he hovered behind me, a towel around his waist. ‘What’s up, babes?’

I wished he wouldn’t call me that. Not in front of the media anyway. Anthony is very sweet, but brains are not his strong point. He has other Unique Selling Features, as we say in the PR world.

‘Why don’t you make coffee, Ant, and let me talk to our visitor?’ I said.

It was a difficult interview, but I think I handled it well.

Lashings of wide-eyed ingénue, a touch of sharp-edged denial and a dash of honesty — yes, I was handling the Rainforest Runaway project. There was no point in denying it. If there was one thing Simon was noted for, it was his attention to detail.

I thought I’d got away with it.

‘What was that about, babes?’ Anthony handed me my skinny latte. Sometimes I found Ant a little too … frothy, but we were a good team. I knew it wasn’t fair to expect mental stimulation from a hairdresser to the stars. In other areas, he was very stimulating indeed.

‘Nothing you need to worry about, snookiepants.’ Energised after my bout with Simon, I wiggled my shoulders playfully.

Ant correctly interpreted my mood. Taking my coffee cup from me, he ran his hands inside my dressing gown and lifted me onto the breakfast bench.

Outside the window, the Manly ferry thrust itself across the sun-studded water of the harbour. The commuters on the front braced themselves for a fast, wet ride.

It was a Harlequin Mills & Boon Sexy Sensation moment. With my bare bum cold on the black granite and my legs wrapped around Ant’s waist, I permitted myself a moment of smugness. For a girl from Blacktown, I’d done pretty well.

I arrived at work right on time and nicely relaxed.

Suzie, the junior on the front desk, looked up as I pushed open the glass doors. ‘You look good, Cassandra. New makeup?’

I flashed a smile. ‘Morning Glory — you should try it.’ She scribbled a note as I went into my office. I shouldn’t tease, but there was something about her that invited it — a sweet naivety that reminded me of myself at that age.

Wazza wandered in soon after, puffing on his cigar, a phone held to his ear. He finished his call. ‘How’s tricks, Cassandra?’

‘All good, Wazza.’ There was no need to trouble him with news of Simon McKechnie. The situation was under control. Wazza’s shiny silver phone directed a ray of light across my desk. It flashed in my eyes, blinding me for a moment. ‘Hey, when do I get my iPhone?’

‘It’s coming, darling. You know I can’t refuse you anything.’ Wazza blew me a kiss as he left.

I spent the next half-hour or so ringing the people on the ground, telling them to sit tight — put a rain check on the day’s recruitment. The People’s Council for Better Community Services wasn’t disbanded, just lying low.

Once that was done, I put it out of my mind. Rainforest Runaway was only one client. Twenty others were panting for the Winning Edge touch.

There was nothing on the TV news that night, which was a promising sign, but the proof of my escape would be next morning’s Herald.

At six am I prodded Ant. ‘Go get the paper.’ I sat up while he was gone and gazed out at the harbour. Was there any better view in the world? With the sun rising it was like an abstract painting — triangles of gold light, triangles of red boats.

I pulled on the sunglasses I kept on my bedside table for this purpose. I’d worked so hard for a bed with a view like this. It was unfair someone like Simon McKechnie could threaten it. He’d coasted into his job on the tails of his famous journalist parents.

The only place I’d be coasting on my parents’ tails would be the Blacktown TAB. I think my mother still holds the record for the largest loss in one race. She has other vices too — nothing illegal, though. We don’t talk about my father.

Ant handed me the paper and I gnawed my lip as I picked off the plastic. Bloody plastic wrap. The more of a hurry you’re in, the harder it is to get off. I ended up ripping at it with my teeth while Ant watched anxiously.

Unfurling the paper, I checked page one — nothing. Page two — nothing. Page three — nothing. I flicked to the back, to be sure. ‘Yay.’ I punched my hand in the air. I was in the clear.

Ant rolled over on top of me. ‘Feeling sexy now, poochy?’

‘I think I might be, snookie.’

We were just getting all hot and steamy when the doorbell rang.

Chapter Two

You look a little shy

I knew it was him — McKechnie again. I have a sixth sense about these things — call it my PR antenna.

I pushed Ant off me. ‘Shit, shit, shitty shit.’

‘Don’t answer the door, babes. Come on.’ Ant nibbled at my earlobe, which I normally love, but it did nothing for me at that moment.

‘Damn that Simon McKechnie and his frigging Walkley Award.’ It was no secret in journalism circles — Simon was after a big story to set him up for the award.

‘What’s a warklyward? Do you want me to get rid of him for you?’

It was tempting. I eyed the gym-toned muscles in Ant’s arms. Simon would be no match. It wouldn’t solve anything, though. ‘No, shit, I’d better get it over with.’ I felt a surge of fondness for Ant. He did his best. ‘Thanks anyway, snookie.’

There was no time for meditation, but I did consult Alice. Flipping the book open I pressed my finger to the page.

Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

I slammed it shut. Right. Thanks for those stirring words, Alice. I didn’t say it was an infallible system, did I?

Bing bong, went the doorbell again. I pulled on my J-Lo velour tracksuit for a casual ‘at home’ look, ran fingers through my hair, et cetera, and opened the door.

I almost slammed it shut again when I saw how many of them were out there. McKechnie I’d been expecting, but not The Terror and the TV stations. I’d have to be careful — one of the TV journos was a woman and they’re not as easy to fool as men.

Simon’s eyes were glinting. It suddenly dawned on me: this was personal. He still hadn’t forgiven me for knocking him back; it was payback time.

I’d have sorted something out if it had just been him. Men are usually pretty straightforward that way. I might even have enjoyed it. I had to admit he had something — a certain ruthless charisma. But that wasn’t going to happen with this melee outside my door. Was that why he’d brought them — for maximum embarrassment?

Straightening his face, he opened his wallet and handed me a cheque. I glanced at it, a surge of nausea running through me. It was made out to the People’s Council for Better Community Services. No prize for guessing whose signature was on the bottom.

The TV woman thrust a microphone at me, practically breaking a tooth. I hate the way they do that.

‘No comment.’ I slammed the door and leaned up against it. No comment. I may as well have put my head in the stocks and passed them the rotten tomatoes. Public shaming in the media is the modern version of that medieval punishment.

On Wednesday, Ant brought in the Herald, laid it carefully on the bed and backed away — I’d been known to throw things when I was angry. It was on page three, not that this was any surprise. The story had made the TV news last night. My no comment and door slamming made great visuals. The same close-up of the J-Lo tracksuit disappearing behind my Grecian Blue door on ABC, Nine, Ten and Seven. SBS, bless its multicultural heart, had other fish to fry.

What I couldn’t get over was how guilty I looked. Even if you turned the sound down, I still had a ‘caught in the spotlight’ face — like someone who’d been selling fake shares to kindly grannies. Even I wouldn’t have believed I was innocent after seeing that face. ‘Coffee, Ant,’ I muttered, snapping the newspaper pages straight.

He was glad of an excuse to get out of there.

Simon had pulled out all the stops. It ran to almost a page. I figured he had that award in the bag.

Astroturf — fake ‘grassroots’ group funded by developers

It was all there. How I’d used telemarketers to find people to write letters in support of Rainforest Runaway. The ‘spontaneous’ outbursts of support I’d funded. The ‘activists’ I’d paid to lobby for the developers. Note the ‘I’ — no-one else was mentioned. It was like I’d dreamed up the whole idea myself. Where were all the executives who’d been singing my praises just yesterday?

I didn’t know how Simon managed to sound so surprised — it was standard practice. I knew he knew that. He knew I knew he knew. Oh, shock, horror — the evil spin-doctor. Give me a break. It’s an elaborate charade — journalists and PRs — played out in front of an unsuspecting public.

‘Standard for us, not standard for most people,’ said Wazza, when I rang him for support. ‘Remember the first rule of public relations.’

‘Do what it takes?’

‘And the second part?’

‘But don’t let them catch you.’

‘I’m going to have to let you go, Cassandra.’ He lowered his voice, adopted a mournful tone. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

My stomach contracted. I hadn’t known at all. It hadn’t even occurred to me. Yes, Wazza was my boss, but I’d thought he was more than that. I’d thought we were friends. I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

‘This is nothing to do with Winning Edge Public Relations. I’m shocked and saddened by these techniques.’ Wazza’s voice dripped with sincerity; he was in his element. ‘This sort of thing brings the whole public relations industry into disrepute.’

I realised he was practising his sound bite. ‘Save it for the media, Wazza.’

He snapped back into his normal jovial tone. ‘Give it six months, maybe a year, it’ll all blow over, darling. Then it’ll be business as usual.’

And that’s how Wazza hung me out to dry.

I cried for most of Wednesday — most of Thursday too. When I wasn’t crying I was eating. When I wasn’t crying or eating I was drinking. Sometimes, in a feat of multitasking that no-one but me will ever appreciate, I did all three things at once. Even Alice in Wonderland provided no solace. Knowing that everything has a moral if only you can find it might have been apt, but it did nothing to pull me from my gloom.

Ant tiptoed around me like I was an unexploded mine. ‘I know you didn’t do anything wrong, Cassandra,’ he ventured once.

‘Shut up. What would you know?’ I sobbed and threw a chocolate muffin at him. ‘Dickhead.’ Yes, I was mean. Not everyone can be Zen-like in the face of adversity.

It was the unfairness that pissed me off most. It’s not like my clients were selling tobacco — they just wanted to build some nice houses with rainforest frontages … and backages.

A community group called Save the Long-footed Potoroo was making it difficult for them. I mean, what is a long-footed potoroo anyway? A rat with big feet? I’d looked it up on the internet. Turned out they’d left their run a bit late when it came to saving the long-footed potoroo. Only by about fifty frigging years. That’s how long it was since one had been sighted in that area. The last of these big-foots were holed up in a national park on the Victorian border — nowhere near Rainforest Runaway.

The group was made up of a bunch of nutters who for no good reason had decided their backyard supported a bunch of long-footed potoroos. Their case was based on two sightings, both — coincidentally — on a lonely road shortly after pub closing time. They had the moral high ground, though. The wish fulfilment brigade was out in force. The long-footed potoroo had returned. Hallelujah! It was the second coming of Christ as far as they were concerned. The media loved them.

You can’t fight a community group with news releases, it doesn’t work. So I’d just done what any good PR would have — created my own community group.

The newly formed People’s Council for Better Community Services was doing a great job of lobbying for increased services on the South Coast. A minor part of their role was to lobby for the Rainforest Runaway development, which would bring with it sporting fields, a community centre and a skate park. The fact that this group didn’t really exist was obviously just an oversight on behalf of the community. Who wouldn’t want a skate park? I knew they’d love it once they had one.

On Friday afternoon I pulled myself together. The show must go on. I was due to attend a gala launch of a new perfume by one of my clients, Cosmonauts, at the Art Gallery that night. Chin up, I told myself as I sorted through my dresses, carefully selecting one that wouldn’t show the spot where all those muffins and whiskies had lodged. Razzle dazzle ’em. It takes more than this to get a girl like Cassandra Daley down. Wazza might have let me go but I still had connections. Wasn’t I the hottest PR in town?

I was jumpy, though; I couldn’t shake it. Would people be mean to me? I hadn’t felt nervous about a social function for a long time, but now, the old insecurities came knocking at the door. Remember to make eye contact, smile, think of conversation starters …

I even pulled out the little notebook I’d started when I was twelve. It was stuffed full of useful questions to get a conversation going. I flicked through, in search of inspiration, but it seemed to have dated badly. Do you like guacamole? Have you ever been in a food fight? If you could have a superpower, what would it be? What did you have for lunch yesterday? I tossed it back in the cupboard; I really needed to update that book …

I’ve come a long way since I was twelve. No-one ever picks me for a shy person these days. At least I don’t think they do. I hide it well. Years of training, years of training …

‘Cassandra, phone for you,’ said Ant at five o’clock.

‘Coming.’ I fixed my diamond teardrops to my ears as I traipsed down the corridor.

It was Jessica O’Callaghan, the client and, yes, my former ‘best friend’ from Blacktown. Like me, Jessica had escaped Western Sydney at the first opportunity. She was now the marketing executive for Cosmonauts, a cosmetics giant. Our shared desire to bury our less-than-glamorous origins created an uneasy bond between us.

Growing up in Blacktown didn’t add to one’s allure in the rarefied world of the Sydney A-list crowd. East, yes, north, yes, inner-west, maybe, but far west … never. It was our dirty little secret. I’m not sure if you could call my relationship with Jessica a friendship; it was more of a strategic alliance or trading partnership.

‘I just wanted to let you know, Cassandra,’ Jessica’s voice trilled down the phone, ‘we’re not expecting you to come tonight. I’m sure you’d rather not, after the week you’ve had. You must be wrung out.’ Her voice dripped concern, but I understood.

‘Oh, I’d forgotten it was on, Jessica.’ I laughed gaily. ‘Ant and I are off to the opera. Life is such a whirl, isn’t it, ha ha ha?’ I slammed the phone down. ‘Bitch.

Bitchy bitch. I’m sure you’d rather not,’ I mimicked. ‘Damn right I’d rather not go to your

Reviews for The Liar Bird

[kaetrin_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

ARC from NetGalleyfull review to come.This is an Australian book which is being released in January 2012 (HarperCollins Australia auto approved me on NetGalley - I am loved!). I've reviewed it for ARRA and it will be in the December newsletter for members. I'll post the review here after the newsletter comes out. It's kind of chick-lit with romantic elements, in that the romance is not the main/sole focus of the story. As I'm not much of a chick-lit reader, I suspect this affected my grade.FULL REVIEWWhy I read it: I was offered a digital ARC by the publisher via NetGalley.What it's about: Part chick-lit/women’s fiction, part farce, part mystery with a dash of sweet romance on the side, Liar Bird is the story of Cassandra Daley, shining star of the Sydney PR circuit. The story begins when one of Cassandra’s houses of spin falls in a heap, leaving her covered in scandal and persona non grata in her home city. She accepts a job as a PR rep in the small town of Beechville on the North Coast of New South Wales, where she meets a cast of quirky characters and one grouchy wildlife ranger, Mac. It seems that Mac, isn’t happy about Cassandra’s arrival and pretty soon, a series of unfortunate events which appear designed to force her back to Sydney occur – and all can be laid at Mac’s door. It’s difficult to explain the story more without giving away spoilers, but let’s just say it involves feral pigs, endangered species, lies, a media circus, a flood and wild chickens. It’s the classic fish-out-of-water story, complete with a green tree frog in the toilet! What worked for me (and what didn't): Cassandra takes inspiration from Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass:“Like me, my mother believes there are guiding forces at play in our lives. Unlike me, she isn’t satisfied with allowing a children’s book to channel these forces for her.”And there are wonderful and (in the context of this book) pithy quotes from the book interspersed with the text. Cassandra also subscribes to the philosophy of Rene Descartes and, after meeting said green tree frog in her toilet, has imaginary philosophical discussions with Rene Treefrog. Told in the first person, the story shines with Cassandra’s dry humour, from the discussions with her Blacktown family, her thoughts about the Sydney social sharks and her experiences in Beechville.Where the book falls a little flat is in the romance department. Cassandra is immediately physically attracted to Mac but they have very little interaction – Mac is taciturn, hardly talks to her at all and he gives every appearance of wanting her out of town. The reader has nothing of Mac’s POV except through his dialogue, which is, mostly, very spare. It was difficult for me to completely buy the level of attraction Cassandra felt for him and that made it hard to buy into the events immediately before the flood and her fast turnaround to “Cassie”. After the flood, the story dragged a little – I felt this part could have been shorter and this would have improved the story – for me the mystery part of the story started to edge over into frustration territory. What else? It’s very much an Australian story, with references to local landmarks, SBS and Home and Away and it was certainly an amusing read. If you like stories with a bit of everything together with a touch of romance, this one is probably for you.

[shelleyraec · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Liar Bird is a quirky, romantic comedy and an engaging debut for Australian author, Lisa Walker.The first rule of public relations is 'do what it it takes (but don't get caught)'. Cassandra Daley takes the fall when a journalist exposes the truth behind one of her more creative PR campaigns and is exiled to the tiny country town of Beechville. Organising a press conference in the CWA hall to raise awareness of feral pigs is a far cry from a gala perfume launch in an exclusive Sydney Art Gallery, especially when Ranger Mac seems determined to see her fail, but with a little bit of spin maybe everything will turn out alright after all.Written in the first person, Cassie's eccentricities, which include consulting Alice in Wonderland for advice and conversing with a green tree frog that lives in her toilet bowl, are delightful despite being a little strange. Cassandra's overinflated ego takes a bit of a battering in Beechville, especially when the local ranger Mac goes out of his way to be unhelpful, but as Cassie's 'city girl' veneer dissolves she becomes a likeable protagonist and I was charmed by her growing self awareness. She shows some smarts and grit by facing the challenges of her new role head on and also demonstrates a willingness to both admit her mistakes and learn from them. Walker plays on 'the fish out of water' scenario as Cassie encounters a rare mouse on the run, a Blue Tongue lizard mistaken for a Taipan snake and wild roosters amongst other native fauna and flora, all in situations that will make you smile.Beechville is populated by a handful of amusing characters including a bashful admin assistant, an absent eco warrior boss and a pub owner who pits his military training against the cane toads invading northern NSW. Mac is the Wildlife Ranger who, despite his scruffy look and surly attitude, Cassie is inexplicably drawn to. Though the ups and downs of the relationship is a bit of a stretch, it plays nicely into the secret that is at the heart of the novel's plot.Distinctly Australian with references to Chiko Rolls, swooping magpies, The Chaser, Wolf Creek and a host of music hits, including You're the Voice (John Farnham) and Love is in the Air (Paul Young), the title is actually a play on the name of a native bird - the Lyre Bird. I enjoyed Liar Bird for its wit, warmth and quirky spirit and look forward to reading more by Lisa Walker in the future.